


come on, come on, come on

by jibrailis



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, F/M, cisgirl!niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I always fall for the girls who don’t want me back,” Niall admits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come on, come on, come on

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic where someone in 1D got sex-swapped, and I wanted to write Niall/Taylor, so I smushed these two concepts together like the world's most questionable science experiment, and here we are.

_My mouth blooms like a cut._  
_I've been wronged all year, tedious_  
_nights, nothing but rough elbows in them_  
— Anne Sexton

 

The thing about red lipstick they don’t tell you is that it’s a bullet in a loaded gun. It wards people off as much as it brings them in. Men think they like red lips, but they don’t. A red lip isn’t for kissing. It isn’t for getting close, unless you like your sweet nothings with a side of messy crimson smears, like digging your face into a hunk of bloody meat. A red lipstick isn’t close quarters combat, she thinks, it’s long range sniping. 

The line for the women’s washroom in the club is twenty deep, so she sneaks out to the alleyway and uses her compact to reapply her red lipstick. Out here there are just the smokers, stamping their feet and throwing their shoulders back to threaten off the cold, and they don’t pay her much attention as she lingers by the door, breathing in the much-needed fresh air. 

She applies her lipstick and then dabs some of her twist-up concealer to hide where she’s feathered the colour, thinking about how much longer she needs to stay at the party to make nice — because Taylor Swift, everybody knows, is always nice — when there’s someone slipping out the door and whispering, “Shit.”

She recognizes that voice, sort of. It’s very, very Irish. Taylor caps her lipstick and glances over at Niall Horan.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

“Uh,” Niall says, and she’s embarrassed, “do you have a tampon I can borrow?”

Taylor could make the requisite joke about how a tampon isn’t something anyone wants back, but she doesn’t, because Taylor Swift, everybody knows, is always nice and not a smartass. She opens her Miu Miu clutch and holds out her emergency Tampax. “Thanks, mate!” Niall says, taking it, and then grimaces. “Shit,” she repeats. “There was a huge line at the loo, wasn’t there? Heard someone had a bit of a vom in one of the stalls, and there’s only, like, two of them. What sort of party has an open bar and only two ladies’ toilets?”

“Yeah,” Taylor says sympathetically.

“Reckon I saw a twenty-four hour convenience store down the street on my way over,” Niall says. “Bet they have a loo I could use.” She kicks her legs and she’s off, trotting down the alley towards the bright lights. “Be right back.”

Taylor checks her hair in the compact, dawdling, in no hurry to rejoin the party, over-crowded and sweaty and full of industry people she doesn’t care much for. She’s checking her texts, replying to an email from her manager, and thinking about how much she wishes Karlie didn’t have to bounce out early to meet up with her boyfriend when Niall bounds back into the alley, two thumbs up and victorious.

“So there wasn’t a convenience store,” Niall says, “but a lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?” Taylor says.

“Nope,” Niall agrees cheerfully. “Can’t believe I’m twenty-two—” Taylor snorts “—and still getting surprise visits from Aunt Flo. Maybe I ought to give in and download one of those apps that tracks your cycles. Oi, do I got anything on me leggings?” she asks, turning around. Taylor studies Niall’s reedy legs, wearing what looks like a pair of faux leather pants, and then up to Niall’s tank top, peeling from sweat against her flushed skin, and then up at Niall’s snapback smushed onto a head of bleached blonde hair.

“Nah, you’re clean,” Taylor says. “The app might be a good idea though, if you have trouble remembering.”

“Brilliant, I’ll have to try it,” Niall says breezily. “Better go wash my hands too. Thanks again, Taylor, for saving me from being a bloody leak machine. Louis would never let me hear the end of it.” She heads for the door to the club. “See you out there, then?”

“Of course,” Taylor says, waving Niall through with a smile. It’s not like they know each other that well, but Taylor’s always thought well of Niall, figured it must be tough being the only girl in One Direction. They used to see more of each other when Taylor was dating Harry, or whatever it was they were doing. Would show up to their concerts sometimes, chilling backstage with the band. Niall always seemed happy to see her those times, but Niall Horan’s the kind of girl who can roll with anything — it takes a special sort, Taylor thinks, to be the only, you know, girl in a band as big as One Direction, with their fans being what they are.

When Niall’s gone, it’s just Taylor in the alley with the smokers, and she checks her phone again, figuring she’ll stay another half hour and then it’ll be enough to leave. She thinks of who she saw in the club, wondering if there’s anyone left she should talk to, but most of the people she came to network with have already have gone, or have moved upstairs to where there’s more booze and pills. Taylor’s not planning on following.

She opens the door, stepping back into the crowd, and her skin soaks up the wall of music that hits her right away. The club is bathed in a deep green light, like something from an underwater grotto, and there’s a deep funk of sweat and perfume from so many bodies crammed together. She makes her way to the bar, hoping to get a bottle of water, when Rita Ora sees her and calls her name.

“Come dance with us, Swift!” Rita says, and pulls Taylor over to her group of friends. Taylor doesn’t want to, but she shakes her hair out and goes along with it anyway, smiling as Rita grabs her hips and grinds them together.

Rita’s beautiful, she thinks, and very, very friendly. They dance to a remix of a Yeah Yeah Yeahs song, and then Rita’s leaning over and shouting in Taylor’s ear: “Talked to Adam the other day! Says he misses you!”

Taylor thinks about a time when Rita had split up with Adam, and Taylor was dating him, that they never would’ve had this conversation, when they would’ve circled each other warily, doing that stupid thing women do when there are men around to fuck things up. But it’s good that Rita’s getting along with Adam again, she thinks, because music’s such an incestous business, it doesn’t do you any good to burn bridges. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Taylor and Adam slash Calvin Harris are done, he can chat up as many exes as he likes.

“Thanks, Rita!” she shouts back, and puts her hand on Rita’s wrist to show she’s got no bad feelings. Rita peers into her face like she expects more, but then shrugs, sharp cheekbones flushed and eyes drunk. “I’m going to get some water,” Taylor says. “You want some?”

Rita doesn’t, so Taylor makes her getaway, playing a little game in her head about how much closer she can get to the bar before someone else calls her name. The answer is three feet, but this person she doesn’t know, so she just gives them a smile and moves on. She hears her name called a couple more times, but it’s never people she recognizes, so when she finally reaches the bar and gets her water, she presses the bottle to the side of her face and lets it sweat cold bullets against her cheek.

She can see the VIP section from where she stands, tables littered with empty bottles. At one of them she sees Niall Horan throw back a shot and laugh at something Liam Payne’s saying while Louis Tomlinson has his head buried in her shoulder, giggling along. They’re a happy trio and it’s clear the boys adore her, that she’s their favourite, their princess. Harry doesn’t seem to be present, which is perfectly all right with Taylor, spares her a lot of weirdness when One Direction notices her, and Niall waves. 

Taylor waves back. Niall waves harder, beckoning Taylor over. Her arms make her look like a noodle creature. Taylor gives an apologetic smile and turns away.

Out in the alleyway again, she starts to call for her driver to come pick her up, she’s done for the night, but her phone’s showing no bars and she can’t get reception. Can’t get reception in the middle of Chelsea, she thinks, what a world. There must be something wrong with her phone, she’ll need to have it looked at. She wanders up and down the alley a bit, trying to find a better hotspot but nothing works. She opens up her clutch to get her backup phone before realizing she must have forgotten it in her hotel room.

She’s standing there, trying not to be frustrated, trying to figure out what to do, if she should find Rita again and borrow her phone, when the door opens and Niall steps out. 

“I’m not a stalker, I swear,” Niall says. “Came to check in on you. You didn’t look like you were having fun back there.” She pauses. “Or maybe that’s exactly what a stalker would say, Christ.” She runs a hand through her short hair. “Sorry — erm, are you alright?”

“My phone’s not working,” Taylor says.

“No problem, you can borrow mine,” Niall offers. She reaches into her tank top and pulls out a phone from her bra, unlocking it and handing it over. It’s sticky and tacky from her boob sweat. Taylor takes it anyway, and then stares at it for a second, racking her brain for her driver’s number. It’s always been in her contacts, she’s never had to memorize it before. Niall must realize her problem because she says, “Or I could call Basil to come get you. Basil, he’s my driver.”

“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” Taylor says automatically, but Niall shakes her head.

“No worries, you’re not at all,” she says. “Basil’s always putting up with my shit anyway, plus I was thinking — kind of want to get home too. It’s getting late. So he can pick us up both.”

“I don’t know,” Taylor says, without even knowing why, “you seemed like you were having a good time in there with your boys.”

“What, Payno and Tommo?” Niall barks out a laugh. “I see those twats all the time. They can get smashed without me, it’s all the same.”

“I’m just saying,” Taylor says lightly, “that not all of us can be old ladies who’d rather be at home with our cats and Netflix.” Niall grins at her as she takes the phone back from Taylor and makes the call. Taylor notices that Niall’s nails are painted a pretty slate blue, like rain on concrete. She exchanges a few words with Basil and then hangs up.

“He’s coming, about twenty minutes out,” she says. “Let me grab my stuff, alright? Then we’re good to go.” She disappears through the door again, Taylor hearing the reverb of the club during those brief moments when the door’s open. When it’s quiet and Niall’s gone, she stamps her feet because yeah, it is cold, and wonders if she might not be due for a vacation. She could round up a couple of her best friends and — no, she thinks, maybe a solo vacation. She hasn’t taken one of those in a very long time. A cabin in the woods, she thinks wistfully, deep in Washington state, no one to bother her, just the birds. It could be her Walden. She could polish off a lot of new material there.

Niall comes back with her clutch and bomber jacket. When she sees Taylor shivering, she throws the jacket at her. “You look like you need it more than me,” she says.

Taylor tries shoving it back, but Niall won’t let her. “I’ve the booze in my blood to keep me warm,” she says. 

“Thanks,” Taylor says, selfishly glad, and puts the jacket on. 

“Looks good on you,” Niall says, eyes bright, and Taylor remembers what Selena had told her about Niall, during that time when Selena and Niall had been hanging out a lot. She kissed me, Sel had confessed, anxious, how do I let her down gently. Taylor’s breath catches at the thought. It’s not a secret that Niall Horan doesn’t date much, has never been connected to a guy outside of those rumours that are more or less always circulating about her and the other members of One Direction.

“I don’t think I would be a very good cat lady,” Niall says.

“Say what?”

“I’m scared of cats,” Niall admits. “The other parts, though, being at home with Netflix? All up for doing that instead of — this.” She waves at the club door.

Taylor’s mind fixates on that one detail. “You’re scared of cats?” she asks incredulously. She unlocks her phone — her useless, dead phone — and shows Niall the background photo of Olivia and Meredith. “Who would be scared of these precious puffballs?”

“They’ve got claws,” Niall says. “They can scratch your face off if they don’t like you.”

“Name one person who’s ever had their face scratched off by a cat,” Taylor demands. “And I mean a housecat, not, like, a tiger or anything.”

“I’m not saying it’s a rational fear!” Niall laughs. “But it could happen!”

“Actually, one time, Olivia scratched Harry across the cheek,” Taylor admits. “She was so outraged that he tried to pick her up. It was kind of hilarious. My cats hated Harry.”

“Oh fuck, so that’s where he got that scratch from,” Niall says. “We thought it was like a kinky thing or summat, no offense.” Taylor laughs. “It’s true, though, that all cats hate Harry. But Harry’s insufferable, so you know, good taste on behalf of those cats.” She looks over at Taylor sheepishly. “Sorry, I won’t talk about Harry so much, it’s kind of weird.”

“I’m the one who brought him up, wasn’t I?” Taylor says. “It’s okay, it was ages ago. Boy-crazy Taylor, that’s me. Get dumped, move on, rinse and repeat.” She adjusts the zip on Niall’s jacket. “If your fate isn’t to end up a crazy old cat lady like me, then what’s your poison? You got to pick one, Horan, and stick with it.”

“Guitars, I reckon,” Niall says. “Gonna be crushed to death under the weight of my guitar collection when they fall off the wall and bean me.”

“What guitars are you using these days?” Taylor asks, because this is her lingo, this is her wavelength, and Niall launches into a lengthy description of the new Gibson Les Paul she’s just bought. Taylor remembers trying out a Les Paul recently too, so she offers her feedback and Niall nods enthusiastically before switching the topic around and asking about Taylor’s guitars, which are mostly Taylor brand — Taylors for Taylors is the obvious joke, and Taylor makes it then. But Niall loves Taylors too, she says, used a Taylor 214ce in concert recently, and thinks Taylor’s own red 614ce is sick, like so sick.

Taylor always feels precisely her age, 1989 in every stem cell, but Niall manages that trick of seeming younger than she actually is. Niall’s older than Harry, and Taylor never made much of the age difference between herself and Harry back then, but Harry’s an old soul, always tried to seem less excited about things than he really was. Fame made him guarded. Niall, on the other hand — Niall hasn’t lost that shine yet. It lights up her eager face when she talks about her guitars, about the music she plays on them, about touring the world with her best mates.

“You’re going on hiatus soon, right?” Taylor asks. “Any plans?”

“Dunno,” Niall says, smiling. “Gonna do some traveling, for sure. Get to see all those places I never saw on tour. Visit my family. Hug my nephew. Maybe I’ll work on improving my dance moves too. By the time the band gets back together, I’ll be better than Beyonce.” She busts a move, and Taylor hoots in horrified laughter because god, that’s awful, no one needs to see that.

“What?” Niall says in a falsetto. “Am I not _sensuous_ enough for you, Taylor Swift?” She drops down to her haunches and shakes her booty, not that she really has one. Taylor can’t tell if she’s trying to twerk or if she’s having a conniption.

“Stop! Stop!” Taylor pleads mercy. “Leave it to Beyonce.”

“Fine,” Niall pouts, popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. She adjusts her snapback. “Oh look, there’s Basil!” she points at the sweep of headlights at the end of the alley, and oh, Taylor had almost forgotten that they were waiting for a driver, it’d been so genuinely fun to talk to Niall. 

Taylor’s mastered the art of how to climb into a backseat while wearing a short skater skirt and not give anyone an eyeful of her underwear. Niall doesn’t have to worry about that. She scrambles in with her leather leggings, and waits patiently for Taylor to join her. “Hiya Basil,” she says to the man in front. “Thanks for coming by.”

“It’s my job, innit, Ms. Horan,” he says, and Niall cackles delightedly at the Ms. Horan part, clearly a longstanding joke.

“Where are you staying, Ms. Swift?” he asks, and Taylor gives him the address of her hotel.

Basil rolls up the divider between the front seat and the back to offer them some privacy. Niall settles in as the car pulls away from the curb, rooting around the backseat for a crumpled up bag of chips. “I knew I left these here somewhere,” she says. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” says Taylor. “I think you were sitting on them.”

“Yeah, they’re all in pieces now,” Niall says sadly, but eats them anyway. 

In the car Taylor’s content to gaze out the window, watching the streets of London, the people still out and about, the lights of the city. Niall’s doing the same on her side, quiet except for the munching of chips. Then she says, “It’s not all good, you know.”

Taylor turns to her.

“What I do,” Niall says. “What _we_ do.” She gestures at them both. “Not all of it’s seeing the world, meeting my idols, and playing sweet, sweet guitars.” Taylor waits, because Niall’s clearly got something she wants to get off her chest, and she does. 

“I cry myself to sleep sometimes,” she says. “The things they say about me, they don’t say that shit about any of the lads. Picking apart my looks, how much I weigh, what I wear, whether or I’m not seducing my bandmates. Everything I do, it’s like I’m judged ten times worse. Sometimes a girl just wants to piss in an empty car park without worrying it’ll ruin her career, you know?” She presses her teeth to her bottom lip, and Taylor remembers the first time they met Niall had been wearing braces. It seems like such a small thing to mourn now, the loss of that tiny imperfection. “But this,” Niall says, looking out the window, “this makes it worth it, I think.”

“Oh honey,” Taylor says, hearing the Nashville in her voice. 

“Sorry, too deep, huh?” Niall smiles crookedly. “Three beers in and I get maudlin.”

Taylor gets messages, every single day. She gets tweets and letters and gifts from her fans, telling her about their lives, about their hopes for the future. She thinks about a series of tweets she read this morning, from a thirteen-year-old girl in the Bronx who said she wanted to be a musician more than anything in the world, but her dad won’t spring for drum lessons, thinks it’ll make her into the sort of daughter he doesn’t want her to be.

“They never stop judging you,” Taylor says. Niall’s face crumples. “But you’re right: you remember the things that make it worth it.” She leans over and puts her hand over Niall’s. “All the people that make it worth it. All the records you’ll smash, all the rules you’ll break. You remember that.”

Niall’s hand is blood-hot beneath hers. Niall’s mouth opens and closes as she tries to decide what to say. She’s not wearing any lipstick, her lips are dry and flaky like she chews them a lot. Taylor’s heart starts beating a thick, wet thud. It feels like her blood is rushing to the back of her eyelids, making everything in her vision seem heavy and slow. She’s having trouble breathing. Basil slows down the car and she sees they’ve reached the front of her hotel.

“Can I come up?” Niall asks quietly.

It’s not a good idea, Taylor thinks. There are probably paps parked by the curb, hungry for photos to sell and articles to write, eager for the chance to break her life down into small bite-sized parts and fight over the remains. 

“Yes,” she says.

 

:::

 

Want comes easy to Taylor, always has, like she’s a creature born for it. A glimpse of a beautiful boy legging it down the street, the slant of a freckled girl’s smile in a car window. It’s always been her weakness, her fierce capacity to want things. Want is easy — it’s everything else, the living afterwards, that’s the tricky bit to land. 

She learned that with Karlie, shortly after they met, when they would sneak upstairs after Karlie’s shows during New York Fashion Week, popping open a bubbly and giving each other secret smiles, before Karlie woke up one morning and admitted that she’d rather just be friends. All the rich, obnoxiously famous men Taylor’s dated, and it was one week with Karlie that was the hardest to walk away from. Taylor appreciates that sense of poetic justice, even if her friendship with Karlie is now one of the best things in her life, she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Want, though, is easy, and what she currently wants is wandering around her hotel room, picking up Taylor’s knicknacks and studying them with keen interest before putting them down again. “‘s nice,” Niall says. “You’re making it your own place,” and Taylor isn’t sure where her place is anymore, where her home is other than the knowledge that she’s drifting further and further away from it. She fiddles with the edge of her skirt, steeling herself, and then plucks two tissues from the kleenex box on the nightstand.

Niall sits down on her bed, just as visibly nervous, when Taylor wipes off her red lipstick. She takes her time doing it, slow and deliberate, giving Niall an out. But Niall doesn’t want an out, Niall’s staring at her with dark eyes and her fingers dug into the meat of her thighs. Taylor wipes off the last of her lipstick and sits down beside her.

Niall immediately reaches up and touches her face, rubs two fingers at the sensitive place where Taylor’s jaw meets her neck, and where her pulse is throbbing, her blood a ship moving through her body. “Yeah?” she says softly.

“Yeah,” Taylor says, and kisses her.

There’s no stubble. That’s the first thing she always notices about kissing a girl. Niall tastes like her salt and vinegar chips, like sweat, and also like the last remnants of the lip balm she must have put on before she chewed it all off. Her lips are as dry as they look, and Taylor’s head spins with want. Niall kisses her back, slow and gentle, her hands wrapping around Taylor’s arms tentatively, holding them in place, locking them together.

Taylor’s spine gives way from the kisses, she melts into Niall, who holds her up, kissing her mouth, her jaw, her nose, her eyelashes. Sweet isn’t the first thing she thinks of when she thinks of Niall, but she’s exactly that, sweet and giving, and she makes the most delicious noises, like it hurts her to be able to kiss Taylor like this, to have Taylor’s tongue in her mouth, Taylor’s breath on her lips.

Taylor loves sweet, loves making out like she’s sixteen again and trying to bring her date home without her parents noticing, all soft, muffled whimpers and tentative start-and-stops. But she squeezes her legs together, feeling her cunt throb with heat, and when Niall goes in for another kiss, Taylor pulls them down together on the bed and straddles her.

“Shit,” Niall says appreciatively as Taylor lays full-length against her and kisses her hard. Niall takes the cue and kisses back sloppily, all saliva and barely contained hint of teeth, and Taylor feels wetness spread between her legs, gasping as she grinds down on Niall.

“Yeah, that’s right, kitten, just like that,” Niall murmurs, and it shouldn’t be so hot, Taylor would eviscerate any man who dared call her kitten. But when Niall says it she goes warm and boneless again, kissing her until her mouth feels bruised and open, like a peach, and Niall’s pushing up to grind back, neck tendons highlighted in sharp relief as she gasps. She crawls out from underneath Taylor, and Taylor makes a sound of protest, but the sound dies on her tongue when Niall pulls Taylor to the edge of the bed, with Niall kneeling between her legs.

“You don’t have to—” Taylor begins, because she’s got no expectations, happy to take this anywhere Niall wants to go.

“I’ve been thinking about this since I was sixteen,” Niall says, eyebrows raised, and when she flips up Taylor’s skirt and peels Taylor out of her tights and her underwear, Taylor closes her eyes, she wants it so much. “Look at these legs of yours,” Niall says in awe. “They’re perfect.” She kisses Taylor’s legs, up her calves and her thighs, and Taylor takes a moment to lock her legs around Niall’s head, letting her feel the strength of them, before letting go. 

“You and your squad,” Niall continues, kissing the hollow of her hip. “I see photos of you and I think, what a bunch of Amazonians. I’m not like that, could never be like that.”

Taylor huffs. “There isn’t exactly a height requirement to be my friend.”

“Hope not,” Niall says, and licks her lips. “Hope there isn’t a height requirement for this ride either, just saying,” and Taylor doesn’t get a chance to quip back because Niall’s leaning in and dragging her tongue over the soft inner flesh of Taylor’s thighs. Taylor moans and flops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Niall teases her for a long time by peppering kisses everywhere but where Taylor wants it the most, drags it out with the gentle bite of her teeth and the sound of her mischevious laughter. 

Taylor’s slippery with copious amounts of wet now, feels soft and lush and open, if only Niall would get her goddamned — oh, there it is, she thinks with a jolt, when Niall finally presses her mouth to Taylor’s cunt and gives it a big, happy kiss. “Hi beautiful, there you are,” she says, and Taylor laughs out loud at this silly, ridiculous girl between her legs, wants to reel her back up for a proper kiss, only Niall kisses her again right in that spot, and starts licking her out.

She bites back her breath behind her teeth, holds it in her mouth like a piece of candy. She strokes her fingers through Niall’s hair, studying the hint of brown roots that are starting to emerge. It provides a focus, something fascinating to look at, when Niall’s mouth is working at her enthusiastically, when Niall’s tongue is delving in and out of her wet, slick folds, and Jesus Christ, Taylor thinks, she’s so good at this, it feels amazing, Niall eating her out like Taylor’s her breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and she’s got to get through the entire day on just this one taste.

“Can’t enough of how you taste,” Niall moans, pausing to pant against Taylor’s thigh. “So fucking good,” she says, and goes back for more, her tongue flicking against Taylor’s clit with ruthless pressure, until Taylor’s exhaling her held breath, making little ah-ah-ah noises like she can’t help it, her cunt squeezing around Niall’s tongue, her thighs beginning to tremble around Niall’s head.

She’s never been so quick to come before. Taylor’s a slow shot at the best of times, going unfinished more often than not because it takes so long to push her over the edge, she feels guilty about it. Feels sometimes like there must be something wrong with her body, that it’s not working properly, but then she’ll have a gorgeous girl like this before her, and it’s like her entire body is an electric wire about to drop into a pool of water and blow up. 

Niall’s going to make her come, she thinks desperately as that clever tongue works her deeply. Niall’s going to make her come, oh god, Niall’s making her come _right now_. Taylor arches her back as her body convulses, wetness gushing out of her into Niall’s hungry mouth, her own lips open in a silent, trembling scream. She comes, and she comes, and she comes, one huge orgasm followed by dozens of tiny aftershocks, her body still jerking helplessly as Niall crawls up her with a wet face and kisses her, letting Taylor taste her own slick.

“Fuck, that was incredible,” Niall says. “You came for me so beautifully,” and Taylor gives her a weak, overwhelmed smile. 

“So I do have to ask,” she says as Niall goes back to kissing her.

“Sure, ask me anything,” Niall says.

“What’s it _really_ like being the only—”

Niall glares at her.

“—Irish member of One Direction?” Taylor finishes, and she can’t help it, she _howls_ with laughter. Niall’s mouth drops, and then she’s tickling Taylor all over, attacking her with her fingers the way Taylor’s seen her do to her bandmates in interviews and on red carpets. Taylor’s laughing and giggling and wheezing, trying to escape Niall’s reach. Niall catches her again, in the end, and pinches Taylor’s belly with one hand while her other finger dips into Taylor’s folds, drags through the wetness, and circles Taylor’s clit.

Taylor’s breath catches. She stops laughing.

“Still yeah?” Niall asks, looking at her with a meaningful smile.

“Still yeah,” Taylor says, shivering as Niall’s fingers start to play with her clit, building up steady pressure with her thumb while she slips another finger inside Taylor, exploratory, feeling how soft and hot she is — how soft and hot she is for Niall, how ready.

Niall makes her come twice on her fingers. She’s relentless about it, spreading Taylor open on the tips of her fingers and then thrusting in and out, adding more when she thinks Taylor’s ready, always rubbing her clit the whole while, keeping Taylor on the edge of pleasure. 

The first fingerfuck orgasm catches Taylor off-guard, and she gasps into Niall’s mouth while Niall brushes the bangs from her face and kisses her tenderly. When Niall keeps going, milking Taylor through the orgasm, fingers pushing into her with a thick squelch, Taylor takes her mouth off Niall’s, rasps, “Don’t think I can—”

“Wanna see you try,” Niall says, stroking Taylor’s clit with just the right amount of pressure, strong and firm but not too much, and Taylor’s legs shake like a mermaid on land. By the time the second orgasm comes, her body feels like one long ache, pulled towards something violent and inexorable, and her head thrashes against the sheets as she sobs, coming in a mess around Niall’s fingers. 

She’s still trying to come down from it, thoughts scattershot and brain leaking out her ears, when Niall climbs up her for more kissing. Taylor kisses back slowly, and then with more focus, smoothing the frizzled strands of hair from Niall’s face, locking her knees around Niall’s torso so that she can’t move, can’t slide back down between Taylor’s thighs and wreck her some more. Taylor doesn’t think she’d be able to handle it.

They’re still mostly dressed; all they’ve managed to remove so far is Taylor’s tights and underwear. That doesn’t seem right, she thinks, so she wriggles up and slips out of her ruined skirt, the insides slick with her juices. As Niall watches, she takes off her top and unhooks her bra. Niall groans and lurches forward, cupping Taylor’s breasts in her hands.

“Come on,” Taylor says, her voice a ruined, hoarse drawl. “I want to see you now.”

Niall doesn’t need to be told twice. She scrambles out of her leggings, her shirt, throwing her snapback across the room where it hits a lamp and falls to the floor. Then she’s in her bra and boyshorts, and Taylor stops her hurried stripshow, wants to be the one to take them off herself. 

“I know I ought to work out more,” Niall says, glancing down at her little round belly as Taylor slides the straps off her arms. “Can’t drink as many pints as I do and stay completely flat.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Taylor tells her, and she is. Niall flushes a pleased pink, and when Taylor gets her bra off, she ducks in to mouth Niall’s nipples, tonguing the round brown areolas. Niall throws her head back and groans.

“Liam had a crush on me in the beginning,” she says, as if picking up the trail of a thought she’d left to dangle. “Back when the band first started touring. It was — awkward.” She gasps as Taylor kisses down her belly. “I adore him, but I hated every minute of it. We tried dating, just to see what it’d be like, but it didn’t work.”

“Mm,” Taylor says, kissing Niall’s belly button. 

Niall writhes, giggling. “But I know what it’s like,” she says. “Feeling like he did. When I was with Ellie, with Selena — with others, I—”

Taylor glances up.

“I always fall for the girls who don’t want me back,” Niall admits.

“I want you,” Taylor says, and pushes Niall’s underwear down around her thighs. Niall’s biting her lip again, staring at Taylor with wide eyes when Taylor settles between her legs and admires the smoothness of Niall’s thighs, the wicked-looking surgical scar on her knee. Niall’s so quiet, though, that she looks up again. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I’m on my period,” Niall says, sounding discomfited. Taylor can see as much. Even if she didn’t remember Niall borrowing a tampon from her earlier that night, she can see the tampon string curling in the dark thatch of Niall’s hair. “So we can’t,” Niall stutters, “I mean—”

Taylor wonders how often Niall’s actually done this with girls, wonders if someone said something cruel to her once, put her off. She burns with sudden anger that this might be so. “We could get a towel, put it under you,” she offers, giving the tampon string a lazy tug. Niall turns bright red. “Or I could do this,” Taylor says, and strokes Niall’s fat, plump clit.

Niall makes a sound that goes straight to Taylor’s cunt, but this isn’t about Taylor anymore, it’s about Niall. It’s about how pretty Niall is when Taylor’s rubbing her off, about how she twists and turns on the sheets, gasping and making the most tantalizing noises, like every touch overwhelms her, is too much for her strung-tight nerves. Taylor would take pity on her, except she has no desire to, and she brings Niall off, fast and desperate, Niall tucking her entire body alongside Taylor’s when she comes with a howl.

They make out some more after, sleepy and lazy, Niall a warm weight in Taylor’s arms. She smells like sex, Taylor thinks, and it’s wonderful. 

It’s when Taylor’s halfway asleep that she feels Niall kiss her cheek and whisper, “You know what I regret most of all, between you and me?”

What, Taylor thinks.

Niall finishes the thought anyway. “That you didn’t invite me to be in your Bad Blood video. I could have been… The Annihilator.” And Taylor wants to snort, does it in her head, but then she’s fast asleep.

 

:::

 

She’s sore between her legs in the morning, in the best of ways. Taylor wakes up stretching languidly on the sheets, feeling happy. The door to the bathroom is closed, and she can hear the water running, so she knows Niall must still be here. Her suspicions are proven correct when the door opens and Niall comes out, hair wet and dressed in last night’s clothes.

“Borrowed another tampon, if you don’t mind,” she’s saying, as if she doesn’t see the way Taylor stares. “Borrowed your shampoo too. It smells nice, like vanilla or summat.”

“You’re wearing my lipstick,” Taylor says.

“That too,” Niall says, Taylor shouldn’t be surprised by Niall’s red, red lips, because Niall does award shows and charity galas and the rest of it like Taylor does, must have learned by now to do her own makeup. It shouldn’t surprise her, but it does anyway. The snapback and the Ruby Woo red lip make her look impossibly cool, like someone who would never admit to listening to Taylor Swift songs on the radio, and Taylor crosses the room, naked, and pulls Niall into a kiss.

The lipstick gets over both of their faces, and Niall bursts out laughing. “What was that for?” she asks, and Taylor smiles.

“We look ridiculous now, don’t we?” she says, thumbing the smear of red on Niall’s chin.

“Gotta clean my face all over again,” Niall complains, but she throws herself all over Taylor when they go into the bathroom together, and Taylor laughs because Niall’s written her phone number in lipstick all over the mirror. 

“It’s for when you get your phone working again,” Niall says. “You don’t have to call, or text, or whatever — but I’d really like it if you did. Even as friends. I’m cool with — whatever.”

But Taylor tilts Niall’s face towards her and kisses her again, lipstick mess and all. “I’ll call,” she says, and she doesn’t even realize it’s true until she says it, but it is, and she will. Her pulse grows in her throat like a sponge soaking up water when Niall smiles slowly.

“Alright,” she says, “then I better get going. Louis’ blowing up my phone wondering where I am.” She turns the faucet on and splashes her face with water, rubbing the lipstick stains out. Taylor pulls on a bathrobe and watches her. When Niall’s done, she wipes her face on a dry towel and then meets Taylor’s eye. It looks like there’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t say it, just drops a kiss on Taylor’s cheek. “Bye then,” she says, and Taylor watches her go.

Taylor’s got the entire morning free, so she takes a hot shower and orders room service, eating avocado toast in bed while watching cartoons on the hotel TV. They’re playing the classics, and she’s watching Wile E. Coyote run his little legs out, and then realize there’s no more ground beneath him and he’s falling. She finishes her breakfast and cleans up, tidying her room until she finds the backup phone in her luggage. She returns to the bed, sitting cross-legged, and scrolls through her photos until she’s got her favourite picture of Olivia and Meredith, the one where they’re gleefully destroying a pair of Nicholas Kirkwood heels.

She wants to be, she thinks, the sort of person who holds out her hand even when her fingers have been bit before, even when she’s wary and hurt, even when the whole world’s waiting to judge. She wants to be the Taylor that lives large in her own head, the girl with a dream, the girl who smashes records and breaks all the rules.

She wants to find out how to start.

It’s a small thing, finding her favourite picture on her phone, but she does it, and sends it to Niall. _on one condition: we’ll have to get you used to cats_.

Three bubbles swim onto the screen as Niall types back.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
